Homecoming Blues
by sleepyheadextreme
Summary: One Shot. Trixie returns to a home she swore never to return to and aide her dying father. Will this last meeting give her a change of heart or will it remain cold and distant.


The bumps, the rattles of the wagon, even the fridged chill in the air, these things were familiar to The Great and Powerful Trixie, but now she was riding in the back of a courier's wagon instead of pulling her own cart. She had little choice in the matter, though, things seemed dire and time was slipping by more and more quickly. The cart came to a sudden stop and she heard the Courier shout, "We've made it."

It was a simple, blunt announcement but it was enough to get Trixie to lift her bag and jump out of the wagon. She used her magic to rummage through her bag and grab one of the last few bits she had to her name and tossed it to the courier as she passed him. It was a tad out of character for her, but the circumstances of her travels made her a bit humble, if only for the moment.

"The Great and Powerful Trixie, Thanks you for your menial labor."

That sounded more like her.

She watches the wagon turn around and leave before turning her attention to her destination, which the very sight of ushered pain in Trixie's chest. It was her home town. A nameless village on the edge of Equestria's borders. It laid between the base of two mountains like a foal in a craddle and continued into the bend of the mountain. Just beyond that would be an endless horizon of mountains, just like the two in front of her, which belonged to the griffins. Trixie shook the awe off her with little success. She walked down the main road, which she hasn't done since she was young. She remembered the homes and shops, all small and lightly snow covered. There were plenty of griffins and a fair amount of Pegasi and unicorns, though virtually no earth ponies, they all traded at shops, conversed in the streets, and watched as their children played.

It wasn't long before the griffins and ponies became more and more scarce. It was on a street that didn't have a single soul on it, when she found the lonely home she was looking for. The blue mare walks up to the front door and simply let's herself in. The single room house was poorly illuminated by the fireplace, an elderly colt who shared Trixie's light blue coat sat next to it. The colt was focused on writing in a rather large and old book in front of him.

"It's good to see you again, father."

"It is good to see you, too, Trixie," He says in his rusted voice, his eyes still scrolling the book. Never leaving it.

"But you can't when your eyes are glued to that old thing"

"You know as well as I do that it is only an expression. The only thing that matters is the feeling behind"

For a moment Trixie wondered if there were feelings behind it.

She sighed in a slight disbelief before giving up and taking a seat near her father. Once by the warm fire, she gave a quick look at her old home. Even in the dim light of the fire she could tell that little has changed, though it certainly has grown dustier than when she left it. Her gaze eventually fell onto her father. He had a tired look about him and those with a keen eye can catch the subtle shivering of his cold body. His mane was short and choppy white hair, his coat was dirty and unkept, and his eyes had enough bags under them to go on several holidays. The very sight of him brought an unexpected warmth into Trixie's heart. Though he was the kind of father that one would respect more than love, an amazing feat seeing as he knew little of being a father. He was once a promising wizard whose dreams of grandeur caused him to be kicked out of Canterlot and forced to travel Equestria for a few years to learn on his own. He studied in libraries that predated Canterlot's, colleges of magic, and from fellow magicians who had seen magic that words could not describe. After his long arduous journey he returned home, where he settled for a few years before he married a mare half his years and sired a foal at an old age. Though life threw him more ill fortune when he lost his wife when their child was still young. He took care of his little filly from that moment onward, and despite this whenever Trixie saw him from his bushy eye brows to his unpolished hooves, the contempt she felt over shadowed any warmth. Even now he seems more concerned with the dusty old book than with his own daughter.

Trixie was well aware that the book was a grimoire. In the old days it was common practice for a unicorn, especially those whose destinies lied in magic, to write a grimoire containing every spell they had learned or created. The practice has died down in receant generations but here was an old colt holding on to long dead traditions.

The colt began to cough and wheeze, the spasm was violent but passed quickl,y yet it didn't take him away from his book. He continued to write down but stopped once he felt a familiar warmth drapped around him. He looked up from his book for the first time since his daughter came and noticed that his old quilt was around him. Trixie placed it on him and then went on to find something to distract herself, because they both knew that a conversation is the last thing they want. This mutual desire would cause one of the longest awkward silences of either of their lives, maybe even Equestrian history. Trixie would spend the days cleaning the neglected home while her aging father focused on the grimoire. She would dust the tops of table, sweep neglected floors, and wash the layer of grime off the windows so you could actually see through them again, by the time the third day arrived the cottage was the best it had looked in ages. Trixie allowed herself to take some pride in that, even if it was as insignificant as cleaning Trixie always took pride in her work. She gave her hundred and ten percent on everything, and cleaning her father's house to distract her from the uncomfortable and obvious.

This, however, left her with little left to do and that a confrontation with her father was inevitable. Trixie gave the home once more inspection, before sitting next to her father. The two didn't speak. Didn't talk. Trixie stared blankly at the fire, while her father was absorbed in his book. Ironically it was the colt who broke the silence.

"Are we gonna drag this out much longer!"

"Excuse me?"

The bluntness of the statement to Trixie off gaurd and she became curious, albeit cautiously, as to what her father had to say.

"You've been avoiding me since you got here. No pony travels half way around the world to stay with a pony just so they can not talk to them."

Trixie didn't portray her anger, she remained calm or at least made it seem she wass calm.

"We both said everything that needed to be said, the last time we spoke."

"Not everything."

"What do you mean!?"

Trixie was curious, but her rage had far more control at this point.

"You knew I didn't have long and you came here anyways. So you obviously want something. Just tell me what it is so we can move on with our live, or what's left of it."

The blue mare's rage boiled, almost spilling over in a fit of rage. The rational side of Trixie's brain saw the slowly dying flames of the fire, nothing to get work up over, but still a perfect excuse.

"I just want a decent fire so I don't freeze to death!"

The mare rushes out the door before her father could speak again, slamming the door behind. The moment she was outside, she seemed to calm down, allowing herself to cool down. The rage inside of her slowly turned into a deep regret.

Why should she feel bad? It was all his fault.

Why did she say all those thing?

Because she could be inconsiderate at times.

Trixie dragged her hooves across the snow covered ground and made her way to the side of the building, where a pile of wood, bought from town the other day, lied under a large, grey tarp. With out any effort, Trixie lifted the tarp with magic and by the same means grabbed two logs. Sudden and cold, something struck her in the back of the head.

The blue mare turned to see a group of griffin and pony children fighting a snowball war, the children were oblivious to Trixie. She was just an unfortunate casualty of conflict. With a magic glow she scooped up a decent amount of snow and rolled it into a perfect sphere.

"Excuse me, children," she spoke as she approached and the children stopped dead in their tracks out of, fearing an inevitable scolding, "When I was struck on the head with this snowball, I couldn't help but notice that shoddy craftsmanship."

The Children were confused by now and looked at each other for an answer. The young griffins and foals returned their attention to the older mare, who was now in the middle of the group.

"The improper shape is forgivable, not aerodynamically sound but it'll suffice. The ingredients to a perfect snowball, however are too important to be careless with. The first is pure, freshly fallen snow. The kind that lacks hoof prints and whiter than is possible. Luckily you live far enough up the mountain that you'll never have to worry about it. The second, and probably most important aspect of a great snowball is a pinch of magic."

"Are you dense, lady?" A griffin finally spoke out, "If ya haven't notice, some of us ain't unicorns."

"Sharp as a tack, I see."

She begins to slowly spin the ball of snow in a circle.

"That is a good question."

The frozen orb began to pick up speed.

"You see the most important thing about magic is..."

The white of the snowball began to divide it's colors. Red. Green. Blue. Purple.

"To expect the unexpected."

Trixie slowed the snowball down, except now the original snowball was replaced with several new snowballs, one for each child and each snowball was a new color. Trixie sent the colored orbs to the children and they gladly, though cautiously, accepted them.

A child took a bite. It was sweet. the others took note and began to devour theirs. They never noticed the counter attack. Trixie raised a barrage of snowballs with her magic behind the children before striking the winning blow.

No one knew who attacked whom. The children gave out a joyful battle cry as they regressed down the alley ways and back streets.

It was the first time in a long time that she put on a performance that lacked malice or vanity, and is was a far cry from the desperate cries for attention that she usually did. A small, brief smile found its' way on Trixie's face and was even accompanied by a low chuckle. The Magician returned to collecting. Completely unaware that the older, blue colt was watching her from the window.

Trixie returned to the home with two new logs for the fire place. She glanced over at her father, who was burried in his book as always. Trixie just thanked Celestia for the peace and placed the logs on the fire.

"Do you remember what I said to you...on the day you left for Canterlot."

Her father's voice caught her completely off gaurd. She turned and saw that her father was no longer writing in the book, instead he was closing it. The father, for the first time in either of their memories, gave his daughter his complete, undivided attention.

"I don't remember," was Trixie's quick response after the shock of it all left her.

"I do. You were playing on the floor, trying to show me another one of your tricks but I was too busy getting ready for the trip to pay you any mind. You finally pestered me into watching, something about a ball going into one card and coming out another...I don't remember. You gave a 'Taa Daa!' and I just said, 'Those are cheap parlor tricks, not real magic and no one cares for cheap tricks!' You ran off and cried."

The old colt was on the verge of tears himself. Trixie, despite what she said earlier, remembered it well.

"After that I swallowed my pride," Trixie began, "and I went to Celestia's School for Gifted Unicorns, but not to follow in your hoof steps but instead to show you and every one else that my magic was real. That it mattered."

"Then what is your magic?"

The blue mare gave the older pony a mistrusting stare.

"No, I'm seriously interested."

The mare let out a sigh.

"Magic...is mundane. Pony's pass it by or use it daily and never give it a second thought. They never stop and realize just how wonderful it really is. They don't consider what goes into a teleportation spell or a matter phase spell, but make it a show-a big spectacle then they see it. Just how wonderful this thing that they never gave a second thought to can be."

"I had no idea."

"Few do."

"Your mother had that same spirit about her. It was one of the things I loved most about her. It was one of the things I'm glad you kept of hers. She would love the breeze, the flowers, the insects that flew by. She saw beauty in everything. I remember the first time she felt you kick. You know, before you were born. It was late one night and were getting ready for bed and she jumps and gasps. 'come feel this,' she says and I place a hoof on her stomach and feel you kick. I tell her that she'll be strong one day. She becomes grumpy and upset and you know what she says to me?"

"No, what?"

"She tells me in her most disappointed voice, 'that's not what she's saying at all.' And I'm taken a bit a back and say, 'well what is she saying?' Your mom looks at me and says, 'that it's far too early to sleep.' It was well past midnight but I couldn't help but indulge her, so we stayed up later than we should and talked till she finally went to sleep."

"What did you talk about?"

"Well, um, you, mostly."

Trixie was a bit surprised, but she didn't quite know why. Maybe it was because it was hard to see her father in such a tender light.

"We talked about how you would be walking early and that your first word would be something silly." The older pony continued his story, "We talked about your first day of school and when you'd start noticing boys. your mother even went so far to say, "Dear, you'd be the first to go on a rampage and scream, 'I got a fireball spell aimed at your flank, young man.'"

That sent the two into a bit of a laughing fit and when the giggles had passed he finished with, "It was all wishful thinking. What we hoped you'd become."

"So how did I turn out?"

The old stallion looks at his daughter and grins, "Better than we could ever hope."

It gave Trixie a warm feeling, one she had not felt in a long time. The two would continue to have long, warm conversations like that for the next few days and well into the next week, but unfortunately it would not last for ever.

He died in the early morning. By a warm fire. On a cold day. Trixie sent for the doctor, not grasping for some imaginary hope that her father will live, but because she silently accepted the most unavoidable fact of life. The village doctor, who in this and many cases like it acted as the town coroner, came and checked for a pulse that was not there. He attempted to coax a response out of the colt's glazed eyes but received none. All of which were formalities at this point. It only took a few moments but Trixie could've sworn it was an hour at the least.

The doctor called in his assistants, who waited outside until they were called in. The doctor's assistants, both unicorns, gently lifted him by magic, placed him on a stretcher and covered his remains before carrying the blue colt away. Trixie spoke with the doctor about what to do next, the doctor was kind and sincere but Trixie was just going through the motions. The doctor eventually left and the blue mare was now all alone. She silently cried for a father she swore she would never shed a tear for. She couldn't believe how much she cared.

She was his only living relative, so there was no need for a ceremony. She opted for a cremation and bought the best urn she could afford, a gruff and old, brass one with only minimal decoration. It didn't look half bad. It was temporary anyway. She would eventually spread his ashes in the mountains of Canterlot. He may have been kicked out of their prestigious academies, but it didn't stop him from loving the city.

The grimoire that consumed the last few, precious hours of her father's life was packed away with the rest of her belongings. Trixie would learn from it and in her darkest hours find comfort in it. She'll curl up by a camp fire or the bed of whatever inn she happened to call home for the night. She would read page after page, her father's voice ringing in her ear as if he was reading it to her like the bed time stories he never told.

All that remained was what to do with her foalhood home. Her father's home. In the end she kept the house, but didn't stay. Maybe one day, she'll return and live in it, or maybe she'll sell it. The future of the cottage was ambiguous, much like the mare's.

Trixie left the town in a silent somber, much like how she arrived.


End file.
